


Painting the Town Red (and Other Colors)

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: Fire and Gunpowder [4]
Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Awkward gatherings, F/M, Night on the town, boys' night out, club dancing, first kisses (and then some)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-04-11 10:57:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4432886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Hop in." She says. "We've got places to go, dancing to do, and, if we're lucky, laws to break."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Painting the Town Red (and Other Colors)

**Author's Note:**

> 4th installment in the "Fire and Gunpowder" Series - Anastazia gate-crashes Boys' Night Out to show her bodyguard a real good time on the town.

It is a time-honored tradition, every Friday night, that the members of the family—excluding the patriarch—engage together in bonding time, once the working day has ended. “Bonding time” meaning they band together in a group of tailored suits and polished shoes, venture downtown, and make themselves comfortable inside a strip club.

Apparently, the eloquently-named Bleeding Rose is a long-time favorite of theirs; from the minute they step through the doors, they behave and are treated as frequent visitors. The petite young blonde up front greets several of them by name, directs them to “the usual place”—a cluster of leather couches towards the back with privacy guaranteed, if so desired, by thick black curtains fastened to the ceiling—and knows their drink orders from memory. 

Everyone, that is, except for “the new guy,” as he is named, once again.

Renold orders a drink for him, something that has a faint green tinge to it and burns his nostrils just by taking a delicate sniff. He blinks a few times, because his eyes immediately start watering and he has to duck his head away before anyone notices, and discretely nudges the glass aside. He has a feeling it might dissolve his insides with one sip.

The walls are black, which he supposes allows for the florescent lights to make more of an impression and draw attention to whichever girl takes the stage—which, in and of itself, takes up nearly half the area, but just in case someone misses it, they’ve lined it with lights—rather than have the customers looking at each other. The floor is carpeted with crimson, and the black leather is slick to the touch. Too slick. Thinking about just what acts may or may not have been committed on these seats makes him squirm.

They have a wide variety, as it were, of women in this place. As young as eighteen (though there are a few that make him question how valid their ID is) and as old as middle-aged, for those who are so inclined. Dark-haired, dark-skinned, pale-skinned, lightly tanned, red-heads with freckles and green eyes, brunettes with brown eyes, blondes with blue eyes…the whole nine yards and then some are available, dressed down in next-to-nothing.

He’s out of his depth, highly uncomfortable, and there are about five other things he’d rather be doing right now than this, and about ten other places he’d rather be. But he’s trapped, roped into this little venture without much say in the matter, and thus is left to try making himself invisible, work his way to the far side in hopes that he can just remain unnoticed for a time, and wait until he absolutely can’t stand it anymore, and when that happens, the door is within easy reach. 

In the meantime, he’ll just have to grin and bear it and pretend being “one of the guys” is his life’s greatest ambition come true.

About half an hour into this sojourn, his mind drifts away. He thinks of Anastazia, wonders what she’s doing tonight, how she spends her Friday evenings—though he already has a faint idea—if she knows what the men in her family do at places like this and it makes her roll her eyes and her lips curve into that thin little smirk she wears so nicely, and if he’ll see her tomorrow at breakfast. As late as she stays out sometimes, he isn’t sure. Two nights ago, they didn’t return until dawn and she slept until it was dinnertime. Araz said nothing in English, but a few things in his native tongue, all of which Kyle is fairly certain were in reference to her utterly disheveled state when she’d stumbled in the door. The kind of “disheveled” that usually implies someone had a few rolls in the hay, to use the old-school term; the notable absence of her stockings didn’t help.

What he didn’t tell Araz, per Anastazia’s very adamant instructions before they’d even walked through the door, was they had gotten caught in a rather unexpected rainstorm halfway home. Both had managed to get dry by ducking into a restroom and spending a good half hour each under the automated hand-dryer, but the end result, at least for her, had been almost worse than just going home dripping wet. Not to mention, she had slipped in a puddle while trying to go down some stairs, and while he’d caught her, there had been no hope for the massive rip in her stockings, and it had just been easier to toss them in the trash bin rather than return home. The tear had been in…less than respectable location, and he’s sure some of the family would have made their fair share of comments.

He still doesn’t understand her, even now. He spends all his time with her, and has even started crashing in her room on especially late evenings, because he’s too tired to drag himself outside to his designated sleeping quarters. He’s at her side, hour after hour, day after day, and still she confuses him. She orders a drink at every club they frequent, and she never once touches it, though she pays for it. She’s flirted with time and time again on the dance floor, but she never leaves with a guy and she never lets them touch her. Yet she’s content and insistent on coming home in various states of disarray, as though she’s completely drunk and just bedded half the males in the city. It makes absolutely no sense.

A pair of blondes—actually, he’s fairly certain they’re twins—stroll up to the group; he can tell the others know them and like them, quite a bit. Renold claims one for himself, and someone else takes the other. There’s discussion about “sharing” the girls, and then, much to his silent chagrin, Renold looks up, eyes zeroing in on him, then whispers in the girl’s ear. She winks, nods, slips out of his lap, and, with a deliberate slowness that is completely unnecessary, strolls over to Kyle.

On the one hand, she doesn’t touch him, per say; on the other and most unfortunate hand, she starts to dance for him. She’s essentially wearing—if it can be called such—a bra with two little tassels attached to the fabric, in a very intentional location, and shorts that just barely cover the lower regions; she’s also of a very curvaceous build, especially in the chest area, and suddenly that green alcohol in his glass looks very good and his fingers twitch with the urge to down it in one gulp. What’s the loss of his internal organs, right?

When the dance starts to become more deliberate, and the “no touching rule” is pushed one time too many, he is obliged to think of very cold things, of the men around him in their underwear or even less, of trucks and cars coming at him to put him out of his misery. And then, somehow, his mind drifts to his childhood when he would go far too high on the swings and try to fly and earn his fair share of cuts, scrapes, and a couple broken bones. Then he thinks more about flying, and he remembers the motorcycle. 

He remembers the rush of wind coming up to meet his face, the rumble of engine beneath his legs, nothing but open air and a very long drop below, and the way Anastazia felt against him. How she relaxed, tilted her head back a little bit, and seemed to embrace the likelihood of death with open arms. And then he thinks, perhaps, it wasn’t death she was embracing. Perhaps, more than likely, she wasn’t even thinking about death, or the considerable risk that they wouldn’t survive the jump. She was feeling the air, hearing the rush of wind in her ears, and savoring the sensation of flying, even if only for a moment.

And then, his mind drifts even farther away and he feels the soft warmth of her lips on his, those hands on his face and fingers sliding across his jaw, her golden locks tangling and unwinding within his grip and the way it felt to kiss her again and again and again, the rush and thrum of excitement pumping through his veins, knowing it was completely wrong and _shouldn’t be doing this_ colliding with _feels good, feels right_ and the dizzying haze that followed.

He’s in more trouble than he initially realized.

The vibration in his back pocket interrupts the thought flow; the girl is done with him and has moved on to the next, this one far more eager and attentive, and he quickly takes advantage of the distraction to pull the phone from his pocket and answer it.

“ _Enjoying Boys’ Night Out, Mr. Nimbus?_ ”

Her voice is like honey, sweetly amused, and he breathes a strange sigh of relief. “Immensely.” He replies, knowing she hears the sarcasm in his voice and probably isn’t surprised by it, one bit.

“ _So much so that you’d like to stay_ ,” she murmurs, with the tone of someone examining her fingernails very closely, “ _or can I steal you? I’m dressed for dancing, and that new club still needs exploring._ ”

“Dressed for dancing” inspires a variety of images, some less appropriate than others, and he shakes his head to clear them away; the lap dance must be getting to him. “How long until you’re here?” he asks, dropping his voice a little before anyone can overhear.

“ _How long until you’re outside?_ ”

The relief that hits him is odd, probably not normal and he should be both concerned with and ashamed of himself. But it hits hard and he’s out the door before anyone spots him, let alone tries to stop and ask where he’s going and why he’s not engaging in the evening’s activities. All the better, because after being dragged away from the only relaxing night at home he’s had in over a month, dropped into a strip club, and suffered through a lap dance he didn’t want, his cordial mannerisms are hanging by their last thread.

Cool night air rushes over his face, soothing away the awkward heat and leaving him relaxed and calm once more. He takes a few steps along the sidewalk, eyes scanning the parked vehicles for a familiar face, before spotting a pair of headlights that flash twice at him from across the street. It’s a jet-black Corvette, convertible roof down to enjoy the evening breeze, with matching leather upholstery and a smiling Anastazia in the driver’s seat. He can only think just how much the car suits her, and how good she looks driving it.

“Evening,” she winks up at him, then nods to the passenger seat, “hop in. We’ve got places to go, dancing to do, and, if we’re lucky, laws to break.”

“Is that your idea of a good time?” he asks, settling into the seat with a comfortable sigh; the leather is cool, everything in here is smooth and gleams beneath light, and the mats are very clean. She takes care of this car, at least in terms of cleaning and maintaining. If she drives this thing like she does the motorcycle, he’s sure the tires have been replaced a few times, and perhaps even the engine.

“You’re catching on quick, Nimbus.” She winks at him again, presses on the gas pedal with an accompanying purr from the engine, and the car zips down the street. There’s limited traffic tonight, so she doesn’t need to weave in and out of the lanes too much, but one glance at the speedometer tells him she’s pushing the limit and about to surpass it. As usual, she looks as though she could care less. The devil-may-care attitude looks good on her.

They drive further into downtown, past the usual clubs she frequents, and then she turns into a parking garage, locks up the car, and leads him down four set of stairs into an underground section. It’s the kind of place one usually sees in movies where illegal activity takes place and the innocent male character who ventures through the doors almost always gets either killed within the first five minutes or corrupted by a woman in black leather with red lipstick.

Not that he qualifies as “innocent” and hasn’t had plenty of exposure to illegal activity in his life, but still.

Anastazia strolls up to the only door in a poorly-lit hallway, knocks twice, and then steps inside with an inviting gesture. Good judgment tells him to walk away. Better judgment tells him to stay with her and not leave her side, even if that means joining her on the dance floor.

Inside, this place is a far cry from the concrete walls and dim lights outside; it’s pulsing with music and lights, the floor is clean and the furniture looks quite well-maintained. Most of the venue is dedicated to the dance floor, but there’s an upper level as well, a series of rooms each with opaque windows and locked doors. He doesn’t have much trouble figuring out what those rooms are used for.

She approaches the bartender, a middle-aged gentleman with a demeanor that says he’s been in this business for a while, who greets her by name and praises her for stopping by. It’s very apparent they’ve met before, which likely explains how she found a club in the last place anyone would expect to find a club. He mixes Anastazia a drink, then nods over her shoulder at Kyle, “What’s your pleasure, young man?”

He really should stay sober, but it’s been a long night and he’s past the point of behaving himself, at least in that regard. “I’ll drink whatever you put in front of me.” He answers, leaning against the counter.

“Famous last words.” The elder smirks, then turns around, mixes another drink, and sets it down. This one definitely isn’t green, and looks far more appealing. And, when he takes a careful sip, it doesn’t burn going down. _Not bad._

Anastazia has already taken to the dance floor, leaving her drink untouched and unattended; he makes a mental note to keep a close eye on it, just in case there’s anyone around here who might try to “accidentally” drop something in it. Even if she’ll never drink it, he’s taking no chances.

One song finishes, and another begins. With the change, the lights likewise shift, and the floor is flooded with pale blue and white neon. It’s a good beat, but in all reality he’s no longer paying much attention to it, or the lights, or the people around her. Just her.

This isn’t the first time he’s watched her dance, but each time he does, there’s something else, something new that captures attention and refuses to let go. Tonight, it’s the way her blue dress sparkles beneath the lights, and how she moves with grace and fluidity, and how, between her golden locks and warm skin and blue silk, she looks like a flame. A flame plucked off a candle wick and dropped on the dance floor. Very alive, a living and breathing and moving vision of grace and danger and beauty all in one.

Though she is essentially at the center of it all, she doesn’t dance like some of the others: the wild, crazy, random movements, or the overtly sexual and suggestive motions he sees from some couples on the floor. She moves with the music, lets the beat guide her, and thus she can go from fast and energetic to lazy and relaxed in the blink of an eye. Occasionally, her fingers will run slowly along her skin, almost incidental, but sometimes he wonders if it isn’t deliberate, and when she turns that smoldering gaze his way, he really wonders if it isn’t deliberate, and if it directed at and for him. 

And then he silently scolds himself for even thinking like that. It’s not appropriate. She isn’t a girl to pick up at the bar; she’s his charge and sole responsibility. He has no business eyeing her like a piece of tasty meat.

They stay here tonight, which is unusual, because she usually likes to spend time in at least three clubs before dawn, but she seems very fond of this new place. He’s sure they’ll be returning here more than once. And he doesn’t object; he likes the venue, no one’s tried to get too rowdy or pushy with her, and the bartender is actually quite good company while Anastazia’s on the dance floor. The appropriate amount of small talk, a few quips exchanged here and there, and while the older man does make a few coy comments about Kyle keeping watch over Anastazia—“You’re a good sort,” he says, at one point, “watching out for your girl like that”—he doesn’t cross the line into anything uncomfortable. Some of the others, in different clubs, weren’t so reserved in their commentary. He likes this one.

When she takes a break from the dance floor, fanning herself lightly with one hand and accepting the ice water from the bartender with a nod and smile, he finally decides to break his silence. He asks her the questions which have been gathering and accumulating for weeks, nearly months, and while part of him thinks she’ll get annoyed by all the badgering, he’s pleasantly surprised at her response.

“The truth is,” she murmurs, running fingers along the stem of her untouched glass, “if you tested me on any night of any week, I’d be sober as a judge. I’ve never put anything in my body that doesn’t belong there. It has to be a really bad day to get a sip of alcohol past my lips. And these legs have never opened for anyone or anything.”

It’s everything he already knows, just from watching her day after day, but hearing it spoken aloud just solidifies it and makes everything real. “Then why keep up the reputation?”

She shrugs, sips her water, and when her tongue flicks out to catch a loose droplet, he’s obliged to look away because the sight does obscene things to his blood flow. “It pisses Daddy off.”

***

Around midnight—a favorite hour of hers—she gets him back in the car and they take a long drive across the city. Along the way, they talk about many things. They talk about when “the phase,” as Araz often calls it, began: around her fifth birthday when she first gave her babysitter the slip, left the house after the decorators forgot to close the front door, and was later found by police at a local park, where she’d been experimenting with the monkey bars.

“Experimenting?” He asks.

Anastazia shrugs, “Trying to see if I could walk across them. Bare foot.” 

She goes on to tell him about her teenage years, when sneaking out once or twice a month had turned into once or twice a week; how innocent little pranks had quickly spiraled into the party scene and the foundations of her rather notorious reputation throughout the city. He tells her it’s a reputation he’d missed, somehow, and prior to seeing her in the flesh, he had different visions of how Araz Darbinyan’s daughter would look and act. She laughs and tells him the part about “frilly dresses” wasn’t far off, but also makes a point of saying she was never a child who wanted a room full of toys and she really didn’t throw tantrums too often. But she was the sort that would get those frilly dresses ripped and dirty by climbing trees and behaving more like a boy than a proper young lady. He has no problem envisioning that. None whatsoever.

The ride comes to an end on the other side of town, on the city outskirts. An unprotected cliff edge, infamous for being the sight of one too many car accidents—some fatal, others not—when the drivers take a wrong turn without paying attention to their speed. She’s obviously been here a time or two, because she navigates the turn with ease and parks the car a safe distance from the edge, but not so far away that he can’t see down into the rather treacherous gully below.

“By the way,” she says, stretched out across the hood with ankles crossed and elbows propping her upright, “I didn’t interrupt, did I?”

At his questioning look, she smiles coyly and continues, “Earlier, with boys’ night out…I didn’t interrupt anything, did I? No…prospective ladies? I hear they have quite a selection over there.”

He scoffs, rolls his eyes, and shakes his head. “Let me put it this way.” He stretches his arms for a lazy minute. “Had you called five minutes earlier, you would have been interrupting. And I would have been immensely grateful for it.”

She laughs softly; he really is beginning to love that sound. After a moment’s consideration, he quietly adds. “Why do you ask? Don’t tell me you were jealous?”

“Oh, you know…” Anastazia shrugs one shoulder, eyelids dropping but not enough to hide that playful glimmer, “A girl can get insecure.”

“Well,” he takes a few steps forward, and then, forgoing better judgment, rests his legs against hers and props himself up against the car, “while we’re making confessions, here’s mine.” 

He leans even closer, matching her grin, savoring how _hers_ looks, all red lips and white teeth and eager delight. “I only had one girl on my mind, and it wasn’t the one trying to get in my lap.”

The smile doesn’t fade, so it essentially negates the way she tries to fix him with a suspicious glare and tilts her head like she doesn’t believe him. “Are you playing me, Nimbus?”

The proper thing would be to give her a look, reassure her with words and some comment about how she really needs to trust him more, that there’s no one else who could give him as many headaches and as much of an adrenaline rush as she does, and that he certainly isn’t going to be captured by a barely-dressed hooker in a strip club.

Instead, he leans closer and closer and closer until his lips are on hers. The warnings about _bad idea_ and _overstepping your bounds_ and _definitely not in your job description_ are barely heard this time, because it feels good and he knows she won’t reject him and the way her kiss feels and the subtle hint of strawberries and vanilla from her lip gloss is something he’s actually growing quite fond of, and the curve of her lips against his sends a violent rush of excitement pulsing in his veins. The kind of excitement that comes from barreling down the street and sidewalk and everywhere else in between, the rush of an engine beneath them and sitting beside one another while the wind rushes across the skin and in the ears. It’s dangerous, reckless, and addictive. _She_ is addictive.

Too much, too fast. _Who cares?_

Anastazia chases him for a minute after he starts to break the kiss; he lets her catch him, and after a few minutes she pulls back with a beaming expression. “You should answer all my questions like that.”

“I’ll think about it.” He’d better not, because if he does, she’ll just start asking questions so he’ll answer them accordingly. And if they really start to make a habit out of this, they’ll never get anything done in the day. And the grin on his face might become permanent, and Araz will get a little suspicious. More than a little, probably.

“Don’t think about too long.” She winks with a little smirk. “Or I’ll decide for you.”


End file.
